


coincidences

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Hyphens, Creampie, Cum Play, Dirty Talk, Five Times, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sex Pollen, Sloppy Seconds, dead dove do not eat, forced feminization through words only, forced penetration, misogynistic language, normal trash party warnings apply, seriously hella consent issues, unhealthy attitudes toward reciprocity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has some preferences; Brock's just along for the ride. Until he turns the tables on his second-in-command, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Совпадения](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839880) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



 

The first time it happened, Brock wrote it off as a coincidence.

When he’d come home from the bar (and subsequently, a crappy pay-by-the-hour motel room), trashed off his ass and reeking of alcohol and another man’s sweat, he hadn’t expected to find Rollins in his quarters, waiting patiently for him and practically twiddling his thumbs. Brock hadn’t bothered to grab a shower at the dingy motel, and he’d only done a half-ass job at really cleaning himself up with a washcloth -- but to his credit, he hadn’t expected to come into contact with anyone at ass-o’clock in the morning, either. 

And that wouldn’t normally would have been a problem. But. -- He’d somehow, during the night, veered away from his usual play: blondes with back-breaking tits were usually where he buried himself after tough ops, and whiny, skinny twinks were it if the op was especially tough or grueling. Almost always, he’d take either out to the back alley of his favorite dingy dive and plow into them until he lost it, making sure to scrape skin against rough brick, a hand fisted in whomever’s hair. And it almost always scratched that unreachable itch good enough that he could go home breathing easy.

But the op that day had gone so sour Rumlow could still taste it like bile in the back of his throat. They’d lost three men, and Brock had been second in command -- supposed to have their backs. He’d gone down with a concussion only a few minutes in, and even then had to stagger through it to lay his life on the line for a teammate who was still laid up in the infirmary. And Rumlow had just -- walked out of it all with a headache. If that didn’t call for a night he could barely remember with bruises he’d have for _weeks_ , then he wasn’t sure what did. So -- he gave in to temptation.

The cheap hotel room hadn’t been his own, and for once, he hadn’t been the one doing the plowing. But -- it was fine. It was anonymous. It was painful. It was perfect. And Brock lost none of his carefully guarded masculinity if _no one ever fucking found out about it_. Unfortunately, he had never factored Rollins into the plan.

The second he walked in his door, still drunk as a skunk, was when it happened -- when his carefully crafted plans were ground into the dirt and dismantled. He hadn’t planned on being slammed against the back of his door by his teammate, all bruising hands on tender flesh, the second Rollins took one real good long look at him. Brock had no time for excuses, not even a second for even a questioning “ _What the fuck?”_

He also hadn’t expected Rollins to maneuver them him to the bed with pressuring ease and a faux kind of care that Brock never would’ve even suspected, to tear Rumlow’s pants to his knees, and slide in all easy like, using the slick that’d been left there, less than an hour old. _Still warm_ , Jack had the ever-loving _kindness_ to tell him. 

The second time it happened, Rumlow hardly remembered to think of the first. 

Brock had gotten drunk. _Too drunk_. -- Way too goddamn drunk on one of their off-days after a mission in the Caribbean. It was no secret that Rumlow loved the heat -- thrived in it, just couldn’t get enough of it. Just the blistering heat of the sun wasn’t enough for him: he had to up the ante. Get plastered. Get sweaty. Get _fucked_. He deserved a goddamn reward, anyway, for a job well done. And with just him and Rollins around, he had plenty of time to kill while his partner wasted his pretty time at poker and pool tables.

It never took Rumlow long to find someone -- although it was always easier and quicker to find a skinny twink or an easy blonde broad. But that night he had wanted to get real messy, sticky, and all _kinds_ of ruined. So he hit up some of the harder bars, looking for something close to a fight. It hadn’t been hard after that to find a target, some liquored-up foreigner also looking for a good time: a fight and a fuck. And both? Rumlow was easily willing to provide. He was even willing to bend over backwards for the poor schmuck, who figured he was winning something Rumlow hadn’t already had his heart set on for the night.

So, when he came back to their shared room, stinking of sweat and cum and sporting a black eye that hadn’t been there a couple hours previous, he had little to say for himself to his teammate, who looked stony faced in his apparent loss. Clearly, a good night for Brock and a bad one for Jack and his winnings. 

“When’re you gonna’ _learn_ , Jackie, that you don’t have the head for gambling?” Brock couldn’t stop himself from slurring, from noting that hard cut to Jack’s shoulders, from egging him on like he had the other man only hours earlier. And maybe that was his downfall, that he could never back down from a fight -- even ones he pulled out of thin air. He threw his shirt onto one of the beds and started peeling himself out of his sweat-damp clothes, keeping eyes on Jack as he did so. It wasn’t hard to tell that Jack’d squandered away some of earnings, placing stupid bets and swindling the wrong guys, because the man had a heart that bled all over his face -- he was as easy to read as a goddamn picture book. Didn’t help that Brock’d known him for way too goddamn long.

And maybe it was because he was drunk and his defenses were shot to hell, but suddenly Jack was right in his face, crowding him up against a wall. “When’re you gonna’ _learn_ , Rum’, that you don’t _win_ the fights you pick with me.”

And -- yeah, alright, Brock could’ve fought him off. Could’ve clocked him in the face or slammed a knee into his nuts, could’ve done any number of things his military training had left him with -- but _why_? Here was exactly what he had ordered earlier, _only better_. Rollins was -- his friend, his colleague, but also a prime example of practiced power, discipline, and a hell of a lot of muscles packed into one decent looking body. And it didn’t hurt that he had a spark of _something_ in him, behind everything, something venomous that bit hard and took no prisoners at the end of the night. 

A shove from Rumlow was what started it. He knew it would, and that conscious decision to escalate this shit was what sparked him into action. But -- Rollins wasn’t drunk off his ass like Rumlow still was, his liver working overtime, and it didn’t take long for Jack to have his commanding officer pressed up against the door, a knee sturdy between his legs, locking him in. And Rollins, that jackass, had little problem slowly lifting that knee up until it was pressed flush against Rumlow’s balls, hands flat against the wall and bracketing him on either side. Safe and sound. “You reek, Princess.” His breath came out hot and humid against Brock’s ear. “Bet you’re so full up you’re dripping down your fuckin’ thigh. Really puts you in your place, huh? Your pussy leaking like a needy little bitch in heat.”

And it wasn’t like Rumlow hadn’t heard that shit before -- Rollins was full of talk when he wanted to be. Hell, Brock’d watched Jack bounce a woman on his dick for an hour, just taking his time and talking dirty fucking shit in her ear, while they killed time waiting for an op two weeks earlier. It wasn’t _new_ , but it _was_ rarely fucking directed at him. It didn’t help that he _could_ feel some stranger’s fucking seed dripping out of him, seeping through his pants and inevitably against the knee of Jack’s trousers. Rollins was no goddamn Sherlock Holmes, but he could deduce enough out of a wet spot growing on his trousers from where he was practically letting Rumlow ride his knee. 

And while Rumlow gave nothing in return but a growl and a half-assed shove, Rollins was happy to keep talking, to fill up the silence with his filth. “Look’it you, practically gagging for it.” That knee pressed up ever further, offering pressure and pain in turns while Rumlow bit back a groan. “Still so full of some stranger’s spunk and look at you -- begging for more.” Jack’s fingers dug into his hips hard enough to bruise, just enough of a reminder who was in charge at the moment while Rumlow couldn’t stop his hips from jerking, from rocking himself up against Rollins’ knee, seeking friction and relief.

It was a pitifully short time before his pants were on the ground, before his second in command was pushing inside him, using the leftover slick as lube. And despite anything Jack might’ve said, Rumlow had never _begged_ for it -- only offered the suggestion. 

“You’re taking it like a real _champ_ , Princess. Like you were born to be bred like this, a cock deep in your dripping cunt.” Rollins’ voice in his ear eventually faded to dull static as he collapsed with his release, panting against the other man’s neck, held to the door by only Jack’s strength alone as the other man finished in him.

The third time could’ve passed for a dream. 

Hell, Rumlow wouldn’t have even put money on it being one or the other, because his memory of it was -- foggy, to say the least. He could remember a killer opiate hangover that he tried to mute with alcohol and more painkillers, and he could remember Rollins picking him up from the officer’s lounge, god knows how he’d even gotten there in the first place. -- But after that, it went all hazy.

He had vague recollections, the foggy after-thoughts of pain, of his body disagreeing with something he wasn’t necessarily in practice for. Despite recent happenings, Brock _wasn’t_ used to taking it, to bending over for someone else all nice and easy like, the way that Rollins always handled him. His body hadn’t memorized it the way it had loading and unloading a pistol or functioning on days with little to no sleep. He had to work for it, and typically after a night with Rollins (which was almost always after someone else) he was knocked for a loop. And damn, did Brock hate feeling sore. Physical aching rang true of weakness and vulnerability and he just wasn’t fucking having it. 

Not that that was an argument that Jack Rollins was willing to hear.

The painkillers had numbed everything down to the ground, but there was still recognition there when his second-in-command pushed into him dry, just a little spit to ease the friction of skin on skin. No -- _no_ , it couldn’t have been spit. _Christ_. He remembered Rollins taking him in hand first, whispering filth in Rumlow’s ear, coaxing him closer and closer to orgasm before he spilled himself into the other man’s hand, bucking and gasping and _dizzy_. And Jack, that filthy sonofabitch had taken his hand and -- fuck. Must’ve smeared Rumlow’s own cum over his ass and used _that_ as lube, mixing spit in there just for fucking kicks.

After that, he must’ve faded in and out.

He came again -- he could picture Jack looking down at him, face concentrated with lust and greed, as he pushed warm cum over Brock’s chest, palm flat and hot and familiar. He could remember Jack dissolving once again into filth so depraved that it distracted him from the painful friction of the other man going at him hard and fast. He -- couldn’t remember Rollins coming, but he _did_ vividly remember Rollins camped out against his thigh, lazily pushing his seed back into Rumlow with his thumb, whispering god knows what against Brock’s skin.

The fourth time, Rumlow pretended it wasn’t becoming habit. 

He fucking _pretended_ it was the goddamn dirty talk that got him off, the press of warm muscles holding him down, or even the brutality with which Rollins fucked into him. Definitely, it wasn’t the feeling of being used twice in relentlessly quick succession, to be left feeling boneless and completely fucked out. It was just _new_ and it was painfully nice to have a change in his routine, that was all. And that’s exactly what he told himself at the end of the day. 

“ _Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess_.”

He couldn’t even _remember_ who he’d picked up at the bar that night, because it wasn’t his endgame anymore. It didn’t matter who he started the night off with, because he knew exactly where he’d end up.

So, when he showed up at Rollins door at barely ten-fucking-o’clock in the evening, leaning heavy on the doorframe with way too little alcohol in his gut and spunk already dripping down his leg, he couldn’t have been surprised at himself. Jack, that fuck, didn’t even have the courtesy to fake it.

“Took you long enough.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Brock orchestrated the fifth time, because fuck you, that’s why. Something to do with the pompous tone that tinged all of Jack’s words while the other man was buried deep inside him, or the way Brock smarted and ached after one of those long nights. Hell, it could’ve been anything, or it could’ve just been Rollins’ fucking _face_. In the end, though, the reasoning behind the action wasn’t important -- it was the beautiful _execution_ that was worth noting. Brock was proud of himself, actually.

Sure, he’d needed a little help, called in a couple favors from some boys in R&D who’d owed him something pretty, but he’d gotten it all done in the end. 

It was really all him, and it was a _masterpiece_. 

It hadn’t taken much effort at all to coax Jack into a hotel room after their latest training exercise, especially after Rumlow’d made his intentions clear by ‘letting’ his second in command push him up against the cold steel of the elevator door. A few wayward hands, carefully placed comments, and Rollins was as easily lead as a goddamn sheep. Tossing together a few drinks (‘ _To loosen me up, you prick. Drink up, ain’t doing this alone.’)_ was easy. Getting the serum the boys in R &D’d cooked up in the _right_ drink wasn’t a walk in the park, with a pushy and handsy Rollins, but he’d managed it after asking the other man to strip. Slight of hand was all learned and second nature at this point, and within seconds the clear serum was dissolving into a rum  & coke that was tipped back and greedily downed by Jack in less than thirty seconds.

Another thirty seconds after that, Jack was leaning heavy against Brock, hands fisted in his shirt -- needy, but entirely without coordination. And without stability too, clearly, because Brock was practically carrying both of their weights.

“ _Want --_ ” Jack mumbled, face pressed flush against Brock’s neck, right before Rumlow pushed him gracelessly to the bed. He took a step back, giving himself a second to admire his work. It’d only been minutes, but the serum was fast-acting, just as promised. The other man’s hips bucked against air, nothing there to seek friction against, and a low whine caught in his throat. He struggled to get a mumbled ‘ _fuck’_ out and sweat was already starting to drip down his chest. 

Despite how many times Brock had seen Jack without clothes, he’d never looked quite so stripped bare as he did now. 

“Rum, _please --”_ Jack’s eyes attempted to focus on his superior officer, but they were already starting to glaze over. Despite that, it wasn’t tough to miss the combination of lust, confusion, and anger housed there. _Perfect_. That was just what Brock’d been aiming for. He wanted his peer to feel just as embarrassed, needy, and downright _dirty_ as Jack continuously made him feel -- and he wanted it tenfold. It was only fair, anyway, with the past few months Rollins had put him through. It was what Rumlow was _owed_.

Brock took a step toward the bed, letting his fingers ghost down the other man’s bare leg, calloused fingertips pushing at the coarse, dark hairs that lay there. He paused for a brief moment to take in Jack’s reaction: pupils dilated, breath shallow and fast, eyes moderately unresponsive. “You need something, Rollins?” He spread his palm flat against the fleshy part of Rollins’ thigh, feeling the hot, sweaty skin underneath his hand, fingers idly stroking as he spoke. “Feel like you’re burning up.” And it wasn’t a lie. His second in command felt degrees too warm to the touch, sticky and slick under Rumlow’s palm from absolutely no real exertion at all. Jack just groaned, a low and needy noise caught in his throat, and pushed himself closer to his superior officer’s hand.

The techs had warned Rumlow that the serum would hit hard and fast, and would eventually slide from utterly _incapacitating_ to _fun_. They’d told him to wait out the first little bit and enjoy the latter part -- they were still fiddling with the molecular structure to try to ‘ _eliminate the debilitating part, so sorry, it won’t be that long -- five minutes, tops’_ And then the recipient would be back to aware and functioning.

Five minutes.

Rumlow could make five minutes last a goddamn eternity, if he had to.

Now, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Jack actively begging on his knees, groin pressed up against Brock’s leg, rocking against him and pleading for his commander to let him cum for the fifth time that night. No, though that was a pretty little image, if he did say so himself. And Brock’d take that _any_ day it was offered to him. The thing _was_ , though, was that he’d have that if he waited just five minutes. He’d have that and more -- Jack needy and pleading and dripping, just for him. Mouth going a mile a minute with all the things he needed Brock to do to him. He had that _anyway_. But before that? He had something far more precious. 

Jack, naked and whining and shivering on the bed. No -- _shaking,_ involuntarily. Brock let himself drop down over Rollins, hands supporting him on either side of the man’s head, knees splayed over his hips. Now closer, he could really see just how much this shit was affecting Jack. The man already _smelled_ like sex, and he was pretty much (other than a few wandering hands on their way up to the room) untouched. But Brock didn’t have the time to idly reminisce over what had gotten them there: he only had five minutes for the first part, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

Below him, Rollins could barely shift -- practically immobile, save for the occasional twitch of an aborted attempt to arch his back and gain some friction. Rumlow focused on the pure need in Jack’s eyes as he settled himself more comfortably above the other man, leaving a few inches of space between them. The folds of his clothes occasionally brushed against sweaty skin -- that was fine, he’d have plenty of time to strip himself later. 

For now, he leaned down, letting himself breathe hot and heavy against Rollins’ mouth, before he licked a wet stripe over his teammate’s lips. Not a kiss, but a flat and messy press of his tongue to the other man’s mouth before he licked his way inside with zero resistance. Jack’s tongue wasn’t entirely inactive -- it pressed weakly against Brock’s as Jack let out a low whine of what was clearly frustration and confusion at his own inability to move. As a reward, when Brock pulled himself back after thirty seconds or so, he let the excess spit from his mouth fall between Jack’s open lips, watching it collect and pool on his tongue. He could have left it there, but his masterpiece didn’t look or feel _quite_ complete at that. So he paused, hocking up some saliva from the back of his throat, and spit it hard into Jack’s mouth, smiling when he half-choked from the excess liquid hitting the back of his throat. This time, the anger in Jack’s eyes was overwhelmingly clear, enhanced with disgust and -- fuck yeah -- pure and unadulterated need. “Aw, you like that? Like being debased?” He didn’t get a response, but he didn’t need one to know that he was using his time wisely.

Sure, he could’ve spent his unadulterated five minutes of complete and utter freedom by fucking into his teammate with no prep, using his body the way Jack always promised to use Brock. But where was the fun in that? He didn’t want a blow-up doll, a toy for him to use and abuse and put away when he was done with it, never getting a cherished response and barely being rewarded a sound. No -- he was going to use his time wisely, to appreciate and lavish attention over every inch of Rollins’ skin. He was going to drive Jack _wild_ , and in those five minutes, Jack wouldn’t be able to do a goddamn thing about it.

Brock lowered his body slightly, letting his knee slip between Jack’s legs, feeling the other man achingly hard against his thigh. “Aw, baby. Look at you.” Rumlow wasn’t much of a talker himself, but the utter hardness of Jack’s cock was worth commenting upon. “Does that hurt?” He punctuated his words by pressing his thigh in further and leaning down to brush his nose over the other man’s neck, breath warm against the sensitive skin there. He listened carefully to Jack’s heated breathing, taking in it all in a way he’d never had a chance to do before. And it was perfect: he had the quiet opportunity to explore the man’s body, looking for sweet spots, weak spots, without a chance of Rollins stopping him. 

A moment’s searching had an even louder gasp of breath escaping Jack’s throat than the small pants from before, and Rumlow took that split second to clamp his teeth down over warm flesh. He could feel the blood welling between his teeth, seeping into his mouth and mixing with his own saliva. It was made ever sweeter by the loud groan it drew out of Jack, the little unwilling jerk that wretched through the whole man’s body. Rumlow was _kind_ enough to rock his body slightly as he mouthed over that open wound, thigh rubbing unyieldingly against Jack’s hard length. 

Jack’s hips shuddered beneath him, drawing a quick frown out of Brock -- an all-too clear reminder that he was under a time frame for his little exploration. He couldn’t linger on just one sweet spot. One weak spot.

So, he continued to the task at hand. He kept up testing out different areas of Rollins’ skin, savoring the better ones, the ones that drew the loudest noises. Left nipple. A spot directly under Jack’s bruised rib. His jawline, right near his ear. His hip bones -- so sensitive that Rumlow left multiple marks that he knew he’d see days later in the locker room. And the inside of his right thigh, the meatiest, thickest part of him. By the end of it, Rollins was keening, whining -- absolute putty in Brock’s hands. And his cock was practically dripping.

It was a goddamn shame it wasn’t going to last forever.

But, it was beautiful while it lasted. 

And, to be perfectly honest, it was worth every second. Every second was an unraveling of Jack’s secrets, little weak spots he kept perfectly hidden from the world and from Brock alike. Sure, Rumlow didn’t _need_ to know how to make his second in command come undone with a few touches, but he _wanted_ to know. For all of the times that Jack had just stumbled onto Brock’s sweet-spots and rendered him absolutely wanting, it was only fair that Brock learn a few in return to knock Jack off his feet if needs be.

“How you doing, big guy?” Straddled over Jack’s muscular thighs, Brock pressed his teeth to the skin around Jack’s left nipple before taking it in his mouth, hand fisting in his hair hard enough to pull his head back and to the side at an awkward angle. “You holding up alright?” The drug’s paralytic effects were clearly dissipating, because Jack answered him with a slight buck of his hips and a low pitched groan. Brock could _feel_ the backward tug of Jack attempting to pull back from the hand in his hair. 

That small gift of uninterrupted time wasn’t enough, but for now it would have to do. Jack’s noises were picking up again, sounding increasingly frustrated with an undercurrent of annoyance (and maybe a little shame) that couldn’t be overlooked. Rumlow knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on about moral superiority here, so he’d have to go the route of distraction if he didn’t want to ruin any of the proceeding drugged time they had. The last thing he really wanted was for Rollins to be trying to skin him alive while both of them still had raging hard-ons. 

So, he shifted and diverted: “Easy, buddy. Easy.” He slid a knee back between Rollins’ legs, pressing his thigh against his second in command’s thick length, offering him something to rock against as he regained his ability to move. It was no coincidence that no matter _what_ way Jack decided to move, he’d be practically rutting up against Rumlow’s knee. And, just in case that wasn’t good enough, Brock helped the process along by rocking gently up against him, offering him the friction they both knew he was craving. 

Another noise had Rumlow smirking, “ _Easy_ , Jack.” Calloused fingers found Jack’s hip while his free hand braced his weight right next to Rollins’ neck, fingers going for that sweet and sensitive spot on his pelvic bone he’d found earlier. And it sure as fuck got the reaction Rumlow was looking for: a rough and stunted jerk of Jack’s hips, right up against Rumlow’s waiting thigh, and an answering groan.

The gritty “ _F-uck -- you,_ ” that Jack managed through a groan was both impressive and _hot,_ Brock had to give him that. 

“Nah, big guy. I don’t think that’s how tonight’s gonna play out,” He grinned, licking a flat stripe up the other man’s sweaty neck, savoring the bitter taste of him, salty and musky against his lips. “I think, first,” He moved himself again, pushing his muscular thigh against Jack’s waiting and no doubt throbbing cock in a series of rocking motions, offering friction for the moaning man underneath him. “First, I’m going to make you come against my leg. Get yourself nice and messy.” Fuck his jeans; any number of stains were worth the debased noises Jack was making low in his throat. Needy. Wanting. 

When Brock didn’t get a coherent answer, just something that was a mix between a groan and a few curses, he let himself try _harder_. He bit down against the side of Jack’s neck, right where Jack had responded the loudest -- and dug his fingers into that jerking hip. That little display was what seemed to spark Jack into motion: Rollins let out a chest-deep growl and his hands sprang up to grip depravedly at Brock’s hips, tugging him down for Jack to grind up against with a fervor that made Brock’s heart beat even faster. 

Jack’s motions were lurching and rough, and while it wasn’t the most elegant, Brock simply gave into his rhythm, letting the other man buck up against him, trying to quell his feverish need. 

It gave Brock a sick pleasure to feel Jack wholeheartedly shaking now, panting and rutting up against his leg with little control and probably even less thought. It was just the state Brock wanted to keep him in. Sure, he might get a punch to the face later, but Jack _deserved_ this -- both the humiliation and the hours of pleasure he was promised. It was only fair to turn the tables and up the ante at the same time. Besides, Jack _knew_ that Brock didn’t find much fun in playing _fair_.

Why play fair when he could have a mess the size and shape of Jack Rollins quivering and quaking beneath him, anyway?

“God, Jackie, just look at you.” He whispered, mouthing against Jack’s ear -- another spot he knew was sure to drag shivers down the other man’s spine. “You’re fucking filthy. Just like a dog, rutting up against my fucking _knee_. So goddamn _needy_. I bet,” he ground his hips down, covering Jack’s body with his own, rocking hips hard against him to the sounds of Jack’s moans, “--that if I had the whole team in here, you’d suck every dick just to get a hand on your cock for one second.” He punctuated his words by running his tongue over Jack’s ear, breath hot and wet against him. And that was it -- Jack’s hips convulsed against him and the taller man let out a groan, muscles loosening as he fell back against the bed, sated for the moment. Panting. And _hell_ \-- that was even fucking whimpering.

Whimpering, Brock figured, because judging by the way Jack’s pupils were still blown wide and his skin was still dripping with sweat, his orgasm didn’t even take the edge off his current level of desire.

Rumlow pushed himself back, smirking down at his second-in-command, giving himself a second to admire his fucking handy-work. 

Rollins was a piece of artwork -- more gorgeous than anything Rumlow had ever stumbled upon in any museum. He looked absolutely fucked out: glistening with sweat, panting readily, and looking still hungry enough to kill with his bare hands. He spared a glance down at himself and barked out a laugh, “Look at the fucking mess you made, Rollins.” He brought the palm of his hand down his shirt and the front of his jeans, picking up some of Rollins’ come along the way. “Jesus. Still warm, huh?” Brock brought his hand back up to Rollins’ mouth -- and while the other man shot him a glare and made a minimal movement of his head, he still brought out his tongue taste. “Go on, clean me off.” The words were useless at this point, as Jack was already going to town on his hand, sucking fingers into his mouth, using the flat of his tongue to clean off Brock’s fingers. Reeling from the effects of the drug, _clearly_ , with the need and intensity (and zero embarrassment) with which he was going about his task.  

“Fuck, that’s hot,” He grinned, pushing his fingers deeper into Jack’s mouth: first two, then three at a time. Brock was never much one for talking, but with Jack here and under him, writhing like a fucking virgin, it wasn’t hard to come up with the words. Maybe that’s why Rollins could never shut his fucking trap, with the way he had Rumlow’s body mapped out from memory. 

Another rock of Rumlow’s hips found Jack to _still_ be hard, which only earned Jack a surprised laugh. Brock pressed forward again -- primarily to watch Jack squirm and close his eyes with a moan, and also because it felt fucking _good_ and he’d been ignoring himself for far too long.

His hand pressed flat against Rollins’ warm chest, “Stay.” And then he worked himself backward, extricating himself from the hands that were holding tight to his shirt, so he could strip that article of clothing off and toss it to the side. And, wanting full of lust as he was, Jack _was_ staying -- watching Rumlow with dark eyes, propped up on the bed by his elbows but not moving. “ _Good boy_. Shit, look at you -- listening to me for fucking once.” In short order, he stepped out of his own jeans and shorts: no need for shame when faced with the absolute wreck of the man in front of him. 

“Rum,” Jack managed, his voice hoarse and broken. Honestly, it was the most beautiful noise Rumlow had ever heard. “What’d you -- _fuck-_ ” Brock watched Jack shudder and close his eyes as what seemed to be another wave of desire hit him. His breathing got heavier and his muscles starting to tense back up again. “It’s a present, big guy. Aren’t you enjoying it?” The answer was most likely a resounding _yes and_ ** _no_** , but he knew he wouldn’t get anything so articulate until much later. 

He didn’t waste time admiring the picture before him, though -- honestly, he didn’t have the self-control anymore. Instead, he crowded back up against Rollins again, climbing on top of him to press skin against skin. He savored the slick slide of it, the way Jack’s heat immediately seeped into his own skin through his sweat, impossible to ignore. Before he could distract himself further, he indulged in a kiss -- or something akin to one, anyway. They were never much for avoiding wet and sloppy, and now, with Jack the absolute disaster that he was, there was a certain careless rush to it that had Rumlow’s head spinning. There was no reason _not_ to lick into Jack’s mouth, kissing him wide-open mouthed and hard, as Jack was matching him just as eagerly and if not more ferociously. 

It wasn’t long before Jack was whining -- seemingly more desperate than before, if only for his recently-regained use of his hands. One was firmly attached to Rumlow’s hip, the other was dragging nail-marks down Rumlow’s back, attempting to press him closer. “No shame, huh?” Brock snorted as he bit down on Jack’s neck and ground his hips down against the other man, drawing his own breath at the friction of their cocks against one another. There was little friction, the movement eased by sweat and the remnants of Rollins’ cooling come, and the slick drag of it was just the right kind of filthy. “What do you need, Jack? C’mon, use your words. Ask your Captain.”

Brock made a mental note to talk more often, as Jack fucking _shuddered_ when he spoke that time. Another secret weapon, anyway. He urged him again, a hand tight on his neck, murmuring pretty little encouragements in his ear. “Need you,” He wrung the words out of Jack with another roll of his hips, “Fucking -- _need_ you, Rum.” Any other time, he would’ve commented on the endearment that only fell out of Jack when he was out of it, but right now Rumlow had far more pressing matters on his mind. Like pressing two fingers to Jack’s lips. “You know what to do, soldier.” And Jack, free from inhibitions (Rumlow _had_ to get his hands on this drug again, he _had_ to) greedily drew both digits into his mouth, eagerly coating them in spit, knowing the exact purpose of the exercise.

And while Rumlow savored the moment, enjoyed the smooth slide of Jack’s eager tongue against his fingers, he didn’t have the patience to linger.  

With a growl, he grabbed Jack under one knee, forcing his legs up for easier access. And Jack, god, _Jack_ , did nothing but help him, tipping his hips up and squirming into a better position. “Jesus, look at you.” So fucking eager and ready: Brock had never once before seen him quite like this. His hole, untouched as it was, was already straining and twitching, searching for something to fill it. Brock’s momentary neglect earned him another whine, Jack’s body shifting in the awkward position his commander was holding him in.

“Yeah, yeah, baby, I got you.” He murmured, pressing his spit-slick fingers to Rollins hole. There was little preamble, just a moment where Brock cherished the warmth of Jack’s skin before he pressed inside. “Fu-uck.” It was unbelievable, the ease with which Jack’s body accepted him. His muscles were already loose and ready, something Brock had to attribute to the drug now coursing through Jack’s system. “You’re as open and ready as a fucking _whore_.” A few more easy passes of his fingers and Rumlow was spitting on his hand again before pressing in once more, delighting in the absolute lack of resistance he was facing. “Just like a bitch, Jackie. Hell -- _better_ than one. Look at you, practically eating my fingers up.” Two digits turned into three with one more hawk of spit, and Rumlow watched them disappear easy into Jack’s asshole at every turn. 

And Jack -- Jack was enjoying every goddamn second of it. Rumlow still had him just under the knee with his free hand, practically holding him up as he worked his fingers inside the other man. He offered a twist of them and earned a buck from Jack, hips shuddering against empty air with a groan. He worked them until Rollins dissolved into a chant of Rumlow’s name: _Brock, Brock,_ ** _f-uck, Brock_** \--  and only when Jack became unintelligible did he give in. If only because his _own_ cock was throbbing in neglect and phantom pain.

He couldn’t even imagine how Jack felt, strung out like that with such little relief.

With a quick shifting of their position, Brock dropped Jack’s knee and pushed Jack’s legs wide open while Rollins tipped his hips up, arching up for any kind of contact. Rumlow quickly drizzled some lube from the bedside table on his length, not keen on any painful friction for himself at the moment. No -- he wanted to fuck Jack with ease, to relish the slide against loose and ready muscles, wanted Jack to devour his cock whole with every sharp thrust. 

Brock wasted no more time. Without word, he lined himself up and pressed inside, groaning as he slid so easily in, enveloped completely by the warmth of the man underneath him. “ _Fuck_.” Sure, he’d had Rollins before, but never this easy, never without complaint. Now, Jack was writhing underneath him, hips arching up for more and _more_. And Brock was more than happy to oblige.

He offered Jack what he wanted first, pounding into him hard and fast and without mercy -- giving _himself_ a little something because he’d earned it too. There was no need to stifle his own noises, moaning and huffing out breaths every time they bubbled up, groaning Jack’s name as he buried himself completely to the hilt, grinding in as far as he could go. He could never have _enough_ of Jack, but he was content to keep trying, to keep possessing the other man from the inside out (and hell, if he was being real honest with himself, he didn’t remind the reverse so much either).

But Brock wasn’t letting the drug go to waste, not that easily anyway. After a while he slowed the pace, still pushing in and out of Jack with ease -- just _agonizingly_ slowly. He even paused momentarily to apply more lube, just to hear the filthy squelch of his cock pressing back into Jack aided by too much slick. “Jesus, Jack, that’s fuckin’ _obscene_.” He murmured, wrapping wet fingers around the other man’s dick while he fucked him, pace slow and tortuous. 

Jack was a glutton, Brock knew. Hell -- they _both_ were. They weren’t much for drawing shit out -- if an orgasm was close, they were more than likely to just fucking go for it instead of relishing the experience. Which was why Brock was half inclined to make Jack wait. To fuck him for hours till both their goddamn balls turned blue.

But the absolute absurdity of wringing an orgasm out of Jack while he was impaled on Brock’s cock, of feeling those muscles constrict and spasm around him, was too delightful to refuse. 

“You wanna’ come, Jackie?” Brock grinned, hips continuing to rock gently as he spit down into his hand to offer up even more of a slide for his fingers against Jack’s length. And hell, Rollins could only groan and buck his hips, seeking more friction, more stimulation. “Stop that,” Brock’s other palm pressed down firmly on Jack’s hips to stop the motion, his fingers wide and steady. “Be good and stay still for me, huh?” He was wringing out every ounce of power he had here and was delighting in it, delighting in having Jack immobile and ready beneath him. Hell -- he could probably get off on that idea alone -- but not yet, anyway.  

He continued the gentle motion of his hips and started working Rollins’ cock, fingers jerking him off with ease. Brock knew just how Jack liked it -- fingers tight and rhythm steady: so, he did just that. His pace was unrelenting and within a short time Jack was panting and groaning and fighting to keep himself still, fighting against fucking himself hard and fast on Brock’s dick. But Brock didn’t ease up once -- he kept his hand steady and his hips slow; and just as he could say, “Come for me, Jack,” was Jack shouting and shooting off in his hand. And _fuck_ could Brock feel it around him -- his own rhythm faltering now with Rollins’ muscles tightening around his cock.

But he wasn’t fucking _done_. Rollins was still panting underneath him, body twitching and shaking as he tried to breathe, to regain his equilibrium, even though Rumlow had little intention of letting him. No -- he kept his hand _steady_. Even as Jack shot off into his hand, Rumlow didn’t quit stroking him through it. He only eased up to scoop up some of his spunk with his fingertips before going back to the task at hand.

“Rum --” Jack groaned, hips stuttering, nerves oversensitive. “Rum, _fuck_ , please --” And sure, Brock knew. Knew the pain he was putting Jack through -- but he also knew the pleasure of it. And hell, Rumlow was enjoying the _power_ of it, of holding Rollins down and watching him _squirm_. Watching him trying to jerk away from Brock’s persistent hand. Jack was fucking coming apart below him and Brock was committing every goddamn second of it to memory.

He spit into his hand again, letting it mix with the lube and come, taking in a sharp breath as he felt Jack tighten around him again momentarily -- his drug-induced libido kicking his body back into gear. And Jack just whimpered when Rumlow changed it up again, driving into him hard and fast with no warning, hands both tight on Jack’s hips. A brief respite to his over-sensitive cock, anyway.

He kept the brutal pace up until he felt close again and then he slowed back down, taking the time to watch the expressions on Jack’s face shift -- still hungry, still _needy --_ but now there was a hint of disbelief there at his own body, shock that he was still going, still wanting. Clearly, the serum was wearing off enough to let him _think_ straight, at least a bit.

“Fuck. Okay, baby. Think you got another one in there for me?” Brock smirked, resuming the pace he’d kept before, slicking his hand up again to reapply it to Jack’s once again hard dick. “Rum -- _fuck_ _you_.” Was all the answer he got, though Jack’s hips bucked into his hand and Jack’s rough tone told him all he needed to know. With patience, he worked him over again, slow and steadily wringing another punishing orgasm out of his second-in-command. There was much less spunk to run his fingers through that time around, but he managed enough anyway, to get his fingers back on Jack just to hear the other man whine and curse him to hell again.

He gave himself minutes of that, of steadying Jack with a hand on his hips while he worked his sensitive cock over -- relishing every shiver, every involuntary twitch of the other man’s body. Minutes of savoring the power he held over Rollins, who was left panting, groaning, and _used_ beneath him

But Rumlow only had so much patience, so much resolve. The picture was just too perfect and with a final ‘ _Fuck it,’_ he gave Jack what he wanted: he let go. Of his cock, anyway. Instead, he braced his filthy, slick hand around Jack’s neck and proceeded to fuck into him with brutality. It was easy -- Jack’s muscles all fucked out and loose -- and within minutes (to a cacophony of Jack’s curses), Rumlow was shouting into Jack’s neck and burying himself deep to shoot his release. And _Christ_ , that had to have been the best orgasm he’d ever had.

He pulled out, gratified by the whimper the action drew out of Jack, despite how loose the other man was. “Shit, Rollins. Looks like you were built for that.” He grinned, running a thumb over the other man’s red hole, laughing as it twitched against his finger while Jack sucked in a surprised breath. “Still begging for it?” His thumb caught some of his own come, which he kindly and gently pushed back into Rollins, enraptured by the feeling of the loose muscle around his digit. And Jack -- Jack just took it, cock still half-hard and body still willing. Sure, he whimpered and whined Rumlow’s name, but _Jack_ was the one who pushed himself down on Rumlow’s thumb, fingers grasping at the sheets below him for purchase.

It was Jack, who pleaded to go again, for _more_ , much to Brock’s delight.

And who was Brock to deny him that?

He kept it easy, gentle -- starting by carefully pushing his spunk back inside Jack’s twitching hole while watching the other man grow to hardness again. Lazily (because fuck you, Brock was _tired_ ), he took Jack into his mouth and worked him over until he was nice and slick. And hell, because Rumlow was _nice_ , he even let Jack fuck his throat with little tired jerks of his hips while Rumlow fingered him wide open. Jack came again like that, with a pained whimper and a whined _“Rum,”_ while Brock swallowed around him. 

There was no world in which this little endeavor wasn’t worth it, even though Rumlow had to wait through a litany of curses as Jack came back to himself. Because even as Jack cursed, he hunkered himself down on the bed next to his commander and sighed in fucked-out contentment. “Seriously, fuck you, Rumlow.” He grumbled, stretching and groaning as he settled in for the night -- making himself comfortable by manhandling Brock into whatever position he wanted. And hell, softie that he was, Brock just let him. He offered no complaints, just moved so his head was resting on Jack’s muscular bicep according to direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Pretty sure you’re done for the night, big guy.”

Which -- was oversight, of course, because at four in the fucking morning Jack was shaking him awake with a curse and a promise for creative murder. 

Brock shut him up quick by flipping him over and eating him out until he came again, Brock’s hand milking his cock until he was dripping onto the bed with a stuttering moan.

“What was that, four?” Jack piled on top of him, roughly kissing his mouth because Rumlow could only assume he was still rendered fucking depraved by lingering effects from the serum. “Donno, lost count. Maybe five. Go the fuck to sleep, Jack. My everything’s tired.” Which was true -- his body was _not_ under influence from any drug, only the power trip of it all, and it had finally hit its limit of fatigue while knowing there was no imminent danger.  

“Yeah, yeah. Night, Rum.” Jack’s words hit his hair as he drifted off, at ease that warm fucking body next to him -- cocooned by familiar heat. The murmured, “ _Don’t think you’re not paying for this,_ ” Brock heard right before he hit unconsciousness could’ve been a dream, though. At least, he slept better thinking so, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _christ_.  
>  1\. i'm so sorry that this took so long (months).  
> 2\. i'm so **so** sorry that this is really only over 5k words of just porn. i honestly do not know how that happened, other than i was home sick all day and wanted to do _something_ productive with my time.  
>  3\. i was sick and this is entirely un-betaed. if you find any glaring mistakes, please let me know. and please, feel free to leave a comment too if you enjoyed it -- it would make my fucking day.
> 
> this wouldn't have happened without my porn fairy, to whom this utter filth is dedicated. i hope you -- enjoy it? (that sounds so strange, i'm sorry.)
> 
> follow me on tumblr, if you want -- more trash?: brawlite.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

>  _the fifth time's a charm._  
>  -  
> when it's all said and done, i'll probably combine the two chapters.


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